Enough for One Night
by BollyKnickers
Summary: From Danny's POV . It's the night after the EERIE drill and Zoe's faith in everything she's worked for has slowly gone out of the window. Danny tries to comfort her. Set after episode 2.5 with mentions of episode 1.5 and 1.2. -Zoe/Danny- M for Language.


**Enough for One Night**

**A/N: **Okay so I (shamefully) have only just 'discovered' Spooks, and am only halfway through series 2 (please don't mock me!). And upon realizing that does in fact have a section for it (well I'm a muppet and didn't know to look under 'MI-5'), have decided there simply is not enough Danny/Zoe. I was hoping to take out my frustration on them never getting together by reading some fic, but I've already read the like... three that exist. So here is my contribution. Read if you like; I shan't be offended if you don't. If you do, comments are always loved!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters or Spooks or whatever. I'm not Kudos (unfortunately, cos they make AWESOME tv).  
**Summary:** (From Danny's POV). It's the night after the EERIE drill and Zoe's faith in everything she's worked for has slowly gone out of the window. Danny tries to comfort her. Set after episode 2.5 with mentions of episode 1.5 and 1.2. Zoe/Danny

"I...I didn't know what I was doing in there," Zoe whispers. She's sitting on the floor, amongst clothes and empty cans and food packages, and _god knows_ what else.

You think your heart might break with every word that leaves her lips. It's not the first time you've felt that way. There's something about her that brings you out in a cold sweat, and which makes you feel sick whenever she gets hurt, or nearly hurt. Especially, you decide, when she's sat on _your _floor, drinking _your_ vodka from _your _teapot, little tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. You've tried telling yourself that she's a friend and you're supposed to feel that way about friends, but you know – ever since that day when you'd asked her to move in, and she'd thrown a hissy fit at you, before collapsing, giving in to exhaustion in your arms – that she is more than a friend. Or at least she is in your eyes. Whether or not she regards you as _anything_; friend or otherwise, you're not all that sure of.

And then you'd seen the pictures. The photographs of her and that Carlo bastard. The same Carlo bastard who had hit on her at a time when all she needed was peace and quiet, and the same Carlo bastard who you'd pretended to be her boyfriend to. (That's as far as it ever gets though isn't it; pretend.) And, surprise surprise, he'd hurt her. Everyone who she ever lets get close to her hurts her, why should he be any different? _Why should __**I **__be any different, _you think, regretting it the second the thought leaves your head. You know you can't let her know that you've seen the pictures, that you've heard what happened; it'd rip her apart.

She pours herself another glass of vodka and sets the teapot down beside you. Your mind is dragged back to the last time this process happened. You remember the smirk on her face when you fell for her tricks, and the sound of her laughing when you realized she'd stolen your 'stash' and almost got away with it. But most of all, you remember the giddy feeling in your stomach as she went to kiss you. _She was drunk_, you reason with yourself, trying to get your mind to rewind back to the bright, playful thought of dunking her head in the sink instead (oh how you'd enjoyed that, more than you probably should have).

"What if I've lost it?" Zoe's voice interrupts your thoughts, and all you want to do is hold her close and reassure her. Tell her that she's being silly. That she's just as good an agent as she's always been, if not better. That she'd done the right thing.

"I think you need a night with me, getting wasted and having a laugh," you say.

You could have left it at the first bit, but it wasn't her who needed a night with you; it was the other way around. You long for the giggly, crafty, frolicsome Zoe to come back. The one who is carefree and, upon occasion, sits half in your lap, drinking from a wine bottle, unable to say anything without slurring or bursting into laughter. You don't like the look in her eyes. They look dead almost. She's not drinking to try and forget about how hard a day it's been, or to have some fun; she's drinking to make herself numb.

You instinctively take the teapot away.

"I do love you Danny," she murmurs. You know it's the alcohol talking, but the giddy feeling returns anyway; like you're falling and her arms are out to catch you. _You wish. _Anyway, it's you that needs to do the catching.

She leans across you and you take her hand, misreading it as some kind of drunken hug. It's not; she wants the teapot. Of course she wants the sodding teapot.

"I think you've had enough don't you?" you say. It's unlike you to be the sensible one. Any other time and you'd drink her under the (metaphorical, since there isn't one here, not any more) table.

"I have, Danny," she says, her voice cracking as she whispers your name, "I have had enough. Of all of this. Spying isn't half what it's cracked up to be."

You hope she's joking, but when she sinks into your still outstretched arms, you wrap them around her nevertheless, not saying a word. And when she looks up at you, you think that at least part of that spark has been reignited in her green eyes. And that, for one night, is enough.

**END.**


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